


Some nights

by Anuna



Category: Iron Man (Movies), the avengers 2012
Genre: Captain America 2 speculation, Clint and Tony friendship, F/M, Introspection, Iron Man 3 Spoilers, Mentions of PTSD, Mentions of Panic Attacks, Romance, Supernatural References, gift story, mentions of post traumatic symptoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:19:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony and Clint are fixing things (well, a car), shortly after events of IM3. </p>
<p>
  <i>“I make things. Or... fix things,” he said and nodded towards the car, then looked at Clint. “That's harder than being inside the suit,” he said, looking straight ahead again. “Because fixing something is a risk. It can work out, or it can fail.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some nights

**Author's Note:**

> written really quickly in honor of anna_sg1's birthday; and filled with general Supernatural references. BECAUSE OF REASONS. (Also, I hope I didn't commit fail there!) Bear in mind that I don't know how to fix cars, so I hope I didn't mess this up when it comes to car fixing part. (I did consult my husband who has a clue or two). Also, there's a small, tiny reference to Captain America 2, and it concerns something in Natasha's possession. If you're on tumblr, you probably ran across that detail. (How that object came to be in Natasha's possession is purely my imagination.)
> 
> My dearest anna_sg1 - HAVE A FANTASTIC BIRTHDAY, DARLING!!! I hope you like your gift!

*

_Well, some nights I wish that this all would end_  
'Cause I could use some friends for a change.  
And some nights I'm scared you'll forget me again  
Some nights I always win 

 

 

Tony didn't expect guests. Well, if he was honest he didn't expect to find anyone in the Tower, despite giving everyone on the team their set of keys. (Pass codes, actually). However someone _was_ in his workshop, and it wasn't Pepper (she was still in Miami, she was arriving in four days), unless JARVIS started playing music from random radio stations Tony would never listen to.

Tony entered the large space warily. Being chased around by people who tended to spontaneously combust at least appropriate moments could do things to one's nerves. Tony was still jumpy and thought he had every right to be. 

The impostor who played godawful music in his workshop probably wouldn't set himself aflame. Tony would expect to find Bruce here, but not Barton. (Bruce did come over, quite often in fact, and enjoyed Tony's toys and labs. Tony was pretty much convinced that Hawkeye had his own nest somewhere. But here he was, his head and shoulders under the hood of what had to be ugliest car Tony ever lay his eyes on.)

“Seriously, Barton,” he said loudly, “Rhianna?”

Barton apparently didn't expect anyone to walk in and hit his head on the hood of the car. 

“Fuck,” he muttered and got himself out. “Rhianna's hot. Besides, a warning would have been nice, Stark,” Barton replied, straightening up fully. His shirt, arms and face were covered in what looked like oil and grime. Who would have guessed, Tony thought. Hawkeye apparently had a hobby. 

“Actually, this is my place, my workshop and my tools,” Tony crossed his arms. “What are you doing here, Barton?”

Barton shifted looking mildly annoyed. 

“Well _you_ gave me the key and said I'm free to come over and do what I please,” Barton replied. Which was, actually, true. “And to answer your question, I'm trying to fix this.”

“What _is_ that?” Tony asked with a dose of disgust (just because he could, and because it obviously pushed Barton's buttons, and Tony loved pushing buttons.) 

“That,” Barton said, raising an eyebrow in a way that reminded Tony a lot of Romanoff, “is 1967. Chevrolet Impala,” he supplied, like Tony was exceptionally ignorant. Which he wasn't, of course. It was fun poking Barton because he didn't back away. The guy was also smart, which made poking all the more fun. Besides he wasn't as sensitive as Captain Awesomepants, and Tony suspected he was capable of being mean when called for. (And apparently he knew his cars.)

Tony came near then, inspecting the old car. It needed a few new layers of paint, that was sure, and something had to be done about the leather on the back seats, but it looked cool, if you listened to Springsteen and considered Dean Winchester a cool dude. The thing was, he didn't really know whom Barton would call cool, or anything else, because he didn't know the man all that well. Which was... not so well, Tony concluded. If you let the guy wander around your home, bring in trashed cars and try fixing them, you should know a thing or two about him. 

Knowing people was useful. Tony wondered what would have happened if he listened to Killian back then, or if he checked on Maya Hansen and her plants. Maybe he could have prevented things. Maybe? Probably not, because Killian was a crazy guy and he would eventually go off; but maybe not the in way he did. Tony ignored him instead and allowed him to become a _dangerous_ crazy guy. Inspired him, in fact, but you couldn't know when it came to things like that, could you? You couldn't know who'd take one wrong look too seriously and set off on a vengeful crusade. 

Except if you got to know them first, which could at least give you a basic idea.

But anyway, Barton. And his ugly old car. Tony patted the roof and kinda liked it. Sort of. Okay, he did like it. It was like an ugly big mutt, and there was _something_ about it. Pepper would probably call it charming. 

“Where did you find it?” Tony asked. Barton shrugged, turning to the car. There was distinct feeling of frustration underneath his calm stance. 

“Bought it from a guy who was going to drop it on a junkyard,” Barton went back to stare under the car's hood, hands braced on the old metal. He pressed his lips together and Tony studied him. Barton was a hard guy to read, but right now it seemed his defenses were at least halfway down. “You don't throw away a car like that,” he said, with hint of something depressing in his voice. 

Tony came near the hood, so he could get a look under himself. It didn't look as messy as he'd expect it, in fact, it seemed that Barton did a decent job there. 

“It's an old car,” Tony said. 

“It could still run,” Barton countered, not looking up. He was doing his thing, observing, obviously looking for something. Right, Tony thought. Something he probably couldn't find. 

“Could?” Tony asked. 

Barton shook his head. “I did everything I knew, but still can't start the engine. I'm missing something,” he said. 

“What does _everything_ actually entail?” Tony asked, becoming more interested in his teammate's little project. Barton started counting things and Tony nodded. He obviously wasn't new to fixing old wrecks. When he reached the end of his list Tony was pretty much out of ideas himself. “Hrm,” he said, leaning even closer to peer into various car parts. 

“Hrm, what?” Barton asked. 

“We don't have many options left,” Tony said and snapped his fingers. “Get inside and get it started.”

“We?”

“Well, I'd say you won't be making a lot of progress by yourself, right?” Tony said. Barton grumbled but complied, settling behind steering wheel and turning the engine on. Tony focused on the sound, and it sounded good until it didn't. To Barton's credit it _was_ easy to miss, but it was there. Just a slight wheeze. (A fatal flaw.)

Like a shrapnel near someone's heart, actually. 

Tony gestured to Barton to stop revving the engine. Barton got out, giving Tony a slightly anxious look. 

“Well?”

“This pretty little bird has flown,” Tony said. There was a quick reaction on Barton's face, a wince, promptly covered, but it was there. Well, Tony thought, Hawkeye certainly didn't look like a guy who could be disappointed easily, but then Killian didn't look like a future terrorist. “At least its engine is gone. Total bust,” Tony said. 

“Well fuck,” Barton replied eloquently. “I doubt I'd find a spare engine for this thing,” he leaned forward, resting his hands against the car, looking dejected, frustrated and … actually edging on desperate. Tony wasn't a psychologist but he could read people decently when he cared to pay attention. “Junkyard it is, then.”

And that tone definitely wasn't good. 

“Not necessarily,” Tony said nonchalantly, not really willing to go into the fact that Barton's reaction made him feel uncomfortable. A _not-good-news_ kind of uncomfortable, reminding him of things that didn't let him sleep. 

“Not necessarily? Didn't you just say -”

“Honestly, Barton? Did you forget who I am? I can _build_ an engine for this thing,” Tony said, observing how Barton's expression changed, from surprise into something like hope. That made him feel good, not because he was better than Barton would expect – it just made him feel good to see that flicker in Barton's eyes. “I'm gonna build an engine for this and you're going to help me. I'd hate to see you throwing your money away.... no matter how little it was,” Tony said. 

Barton mumbled something about said money and Tony didn't quite catch it, but it didn't sound like a protest. He glanced at the watch on his hand and sighed. It was six p.m., they were probably in for a long night. 

Better get some coffee ready, he thought, because Tony was staring to enjoy sleeping after a long, long while. 

*

Twenty hours and one all-nighter later they were done. 

And it meant done – done. Clint's car had a new, working engine. It was even painted and shiny, waiting in in the middle of Stark's workshop like an old soldier wearing a new uniform. Two of them were sitting on the floor, backs against a wall; eating cold pizza and drinking fresh coffee. 

“Now _that's_ a car,” Stark said contently, in that typical, self congratulating manner. Clint didn't mind. He actually didn't mind Stark all that much. He yammered on, _all_ the time, which was better than the thoughts Clint was trying not to think whenever he holed himself in here. He raised his coffee cup to Stark and the other man let his head fall against the wall. (Also? Stark was damn smart and Clint always liked being around smart people. He liked how their minds worked, as understanding it was a challenge. He got to learn things. And he was simply delighted by any kind of extensive knowledge.)

“It's a damn good car,” Clint agreed. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome,” Stark said, seemingly lost in thoughts. 

Clint looked him over curiously. He noticed the lack of glowing circle in the middle of Stark's chest the moment the other man appeared, but he chose not to pay too much attention to that. Now he did, noticing that Stark looked somehow better than the last time Clint's seen him. (Granted, last time was just a couple of days after _New York_.) It painted a curious picture, coupled with what Clint learned from SHIELD reports after entire Mandarin thing. 

Like, how Stark apparently destroyed all of his suits. 

“I had it removed,” Stark said. 

“I wasn't asking,” Clint replied. 

“But you were wondering,” Stark countered. Clint chuckled thoughtfully, and guessed he did wonder. Pretty openly, in fact. 

“Guess I was,” Clint said then. Twenty hours of work and constant back and forth apparently resulted in more open communication. That, or Clint was tired of talking to nobody. (This time around, at least.) “Heard you destroyed the suits,” he said. Stark spent last twenty hours poking, it was only fair to prod him back. 

“It was.... a nice fireworks, actually,” the look on Stark's face was heavy. 

“Why did you do that?” Clint asked, glancing shortly at Stark, who didn't respond right away. But he did respond. He shrugged one shoulder, his eyes still heavy and distant. 

“I didn't need them any more,” he said thoughtfully, and then half laughed at the irony of something unknown to Clint. “Someone asked me if Mark 42 was Iron Man. That has to be crappiest suit I ever made. I haven't destroyed that one. Or the Iron patriot, but I guess War Machine was a better name – anyway. I said _I_ was the Iron Man, but the guy asking wasn't entirely convinced. Neither was I. But you learn things -” he trailed off, staring into distance, or perhaps into past. Then he looked at Clint. “I'm the guy who makes things. I'm a _mechanic_ ,”he said, putting obvious significance in those words, which was kind of unusual for Stark. He was a billionaire inventor. It was strange hearing him describing himself like this. 

“A mechanic?” Clint asked, sensing this wasn't entire story, but he'd take what Stark was willing to give him. 

“I make things. Or... fix things,” he said and nodded towards the car, then looked at Clint. “That's harder than being inside the suit,” he said, looking straight ahead again. “Because fixing something is a risk. It can work out, or it can fail.”

Clint shifted, because those words were hitting pretty close to home. He'd been here, in this workshop a number of times; he fixed Steve's bike, he fixed several old cars he'd bought since New York battle, but then he sold them. They somehow didn't feel right, as if correcting what had been wrong with them was too easy. (He'd been to therapy too, because he was a responsible guy; because he knew he had to undergo therapy in order to prevent things like PTSD and remain functional. He still had bad nights and panic attacks. Not as often as before, but they were still there. Fixing that wasn't easy. Perhaps it was even impossible, he wasn't sure. It was one step forward, two steps back more often that he would like, and sometimes he felt like he was getting worse, not better. The shrink said it was normal, but it still sucked. So he liked spending time alone. _All_ alone.)

“We should do something about those back seats,” Tony said then. 

“No,” Clint said after a brief thought. Stark gave him a genuinely confused look. 

“You have a shiny car with a brand new flawlessly working engine, and you want to keep crappy scratched leather seats in it?” he shook his head. “I don't get it, Barton.”

“I like them the way they are,” Clint shrugged. “Used, but still working.”

“Huh. That's... that works I guess,” Stark cocked his head to the side. “If you decide to put bags of salt back there, you don't have to worry about leather getting ruined.”

Clint laughed at that. Nat liked to watch that damn show about demon hunting brothers, and he usually watched along. (If only salt was enough to win against his own demons, his life would be much better. But he had the Impala, and he'd fixed it, with Stark's help, and he wasn't going to sell it – because it took effort, and they won against all odds. Together. Somewhat like Winchesters. Which was how Avengers had won few months back – together. It was also how he an Nat worked, and Clint was realizing that isolating himself when he had a bad phase wasn't exactly the best plan. You didn't get things fixed all by yourself. 

Besides, the car was an _Impala_. Nat was going to _love it._ )

“Hey, Barton?” Stark asked after a short silence. 

“Hm?” Clint was finally starting to feel tired, the spent kind of tired where his thoughts stopped running into each other. 

“How do you feel about short trip to Tennessee?”

“What's in Tennessee?” Clint asked. 

“A guy who helped me out. I kind of ruined his workshop. I'd like to fix it, and I thought it'd be quicker with help of such fine mechanic as yourself.”

Clint grinned when Stark called him a mechanic. It was kind of nice.

“No need to flatter me, Stark,” Clint said, drawing a deep breath filled with motor oil and car paint. “I'm game. But after I get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” Stark agreed. “A kill-eye would be nice, but certainly not here.”

They both got up a bit gingerly, as neither of them was terribly young, or perhaps a supersoldier. Which, in Clint's opinion, made those scratched and old back seats even more fitting. (His car was supposed to reflect the owner.) Clint was used to falling asleep and sleeping pretty much anywhere, no matter how hard the surface because he couldn't be picky on missions, but right now, there was a damn fine bed upstairs, with his name on it. 

“See you in a few, Stark,” he said and walked toward the elevator. 

 

*

Three days later Clint parked his shiny black Impala across the street from Nat's building. He got out and leaned with his back against the car. He could see her silhouette through the window, as she was probably working out. Clint fished his phone out of his pocket and called. It rang three times, and Nat moved away from the window as she picked up. 

“Clint? Where are you?” she asked. There was a smile in her voice and he decided he was wasting his time while staying away from her. 

“Look through your window, gorgeous,” he said. She came back into view then, opened her window and he waved at her, taking off his shades. 

“Well, hi there, Dean Winchester,” she said with apparent amusement, and he could hear happiness in her tone as well. 

“Up for a ride, gorgeous?” he asked.

“In that thing?” 

“In this thing right here,” Clint patted the car behind him. He still needed a name for it. 

“Let me get my trench coat,” she said, moving quickly away. If he was right, she was giddy about the ride, just as he was. 

She came out two minutes later, wearing a proper woolen coat because it was a cold day. Clint opened the door and let the music play – Nat rolled her eyes when _Eye of the tiger_ hit her ears, but she smiled and she wound her arms around his neck. 

When she got close Clint could see the little arrow. A tiny, subtle gold necklace with a small arrow, something Nat bought after the battle, when Clint started going to therapy. She was wearing it ever since. 

“Hi, gorgeous,” he grinned. 

“Hi hotshot. Got salt in there?” she took the shades off his head, smiling fondly and put them on her nose. 

“No, as I'm not exactly Dean Winchester -”

“Mhmmmm, no, you're not,” she was wearing flat boots, therefore she was lower than him, and looking up at him. “But you're not half bad. In fact -” she kissed him, just a brush of her lips against his, and he pressed closer for more. (He missed her. So damn much.) “I wouldn't trade you for Dean Winchester.”

“Really?” he grinned against her lips and she nodded, rubbing her nose along his. 

“No,” her smile turned mischievous. “As you already have the Impala.”

Clint laughed, and continued laughing as they entered the car. He started the engine, smiling at Nat, concluding that he had nothing to worry about, because chicks were obviously after the car.


End file.
